


(but i still see you) in the light

by scrapbullet



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Fluff, Multi, Not Beta Read, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Series Finale, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 23:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: She breathes. In, and then out. James cannot speak for the sheer joy and disbelief on his weathered face, caught up in Thomas’ jubilant embrace. They laugh, and they cry, and the sight of it brings tears to Miranda’s eyes, her heart a thudding drum in her chest.(Is this a dream? If so, it is a beautiful one.Please don't let it end.)





	(but i still see you) in the light

Memory is an intangible thing; transient, like dappled sunlight through the leaves of a copper beech, shifting shadow and shade. One recollection focuses with perfect precision the colour of his justaucorps, the intricate embroidery and the folds of the fabric as he moved. Another might bring to mind the dimples around his mouth as he smiled, or the mischief in his eyes, another; the lines that formed on his brow in deep thought. 

Such infinitesimal nuances, are these, and yet Miranda can fix them in her mind with apparent ease. The fleeting moments - a kiss, a sigh, a weighted moment betwixt rooms shared with the man they so love - are the ones that remain with her. Thomas and his love of books, both old and new, revelling in the acquisition of knowledge. Thomas, and his expression of contented happiness as James melted into his arms. Thomas, and the way he’d bucked against his lord fathers’ will, always trying to be the better man.

And yet, she cannot recall the sound of his voice.

Strange, then, that as she stands with James at the plantation, that she look her husband in the eye and does not recognize him. Gone is the gentleman attentive of his appearance, and in his stead is a man familiar with work. With hair streaked grey and breeches smeared with dusty earth, Thomas is no longer the man he once was, but someone else entirely.

But then, Miranda supposes, neither is she, or James. None of them are unchanged, no, for the past decade has given birth to hurt and despair and rage - such rage that Miranda had thought would engulf James whole - to the point where they three are meeting once more, almost, as strangers.

She breathes. In, and then out. James cannot speak for the sheer joy and disbelief on his weathered face, caught up in Thomas’ jubilant embrace. They laugh, and they cry, and the sight of it brings tears to Miranda’s eyes, her heart a thudding drum in her chest.

(Is this a dream? If so, it is a beautiful one.

 _Please don't let it end._ )

They kiss, slow and deep and passionate. The sound that tears out of her throat is akin to a sob, and they - her lovers, forever in tune with her - turn and gather her close. Thomas, his lips chapped from the sun, kisses her cheeks. James, nuzzling her hair, tucks her under his arm and in to that safe space - the one that has always been hers and always will be, through whatever hardship they encounter.

“Darling,” Thomas gasps. “Don’t cry.” 

“No, no,” Miranda entreats. “They are _good_ tears, I assure you.”

James laughs, all deep and velveteen that cracks in the back of his throat from weeping. His free hand ghosts over Thomas’ shoulder, his neck, his chin, trembling fingers remembering what he’d lost. “Careful,” he interjects, mouth a moue of amusement, “your face turns blotchy when you cry.”

“Such cheek.” Miranda replies, sniffing in mock contempt. She knows dear James is correct, of course he is; her face is flushed and her nose is running and here is Thomas, sweet Thomas, gazing at them both with beatific admiration. It is a dream come to life and the _reality_ of it leaves her breathless.

Thomas grins. The lines of age have deepened, here and there, from hard work and toil, and the fingers he interlaces with her own - and with James', clutched tight - are hewn coarse and rough. “I see you haven’t quite lost your sense of humour.” 

Lord! How many nights had Miranda lain awake, brow pressed to James’ back, only to recall the amused rasp of her husbands humour? “The day James loses his sharp tongue will be a sad one indeed.”

James, green eyes sharp and glistening, purses his lips. The expression requires no words, at least not to the two of them, and they devolve once more into a tangle of limbs - of hushed secrets and remembrances.

Later, when they have departed with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a leather purse containing a generous handful of gems, Miranda allows her body to relax and her eyes to close, half-mast. James has wrapped himself around Thomas in such a way that she cannot tell where her lover ends and her husband begins, but it imbues her with such energy and love that she is fit to burst from it.

James… James is the happiest Miranda has seen him in a very, very long time.

And Thomas?

Thomas appears to her as a man wounded, yet healing. The scars of his past are still pink and sensitive to the touch, throbbing anew with their arrival, but mending. 

Perhaps it is time that they, too, applied the poultice of peace.

Perhaps it is time that they _lived_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just... lay awake and think about how the reunion would have gone had Miranda been alive. Please have this tiny little thing.
> 
> I hope to see more what-if's, in the future :3


End file.
